Secret Agent Man
by katbybee
Summary: UPDATED! A/U A Fireman's Picnic, the PERFECT setting! Oh goody! My muse has popped a gasket! "Oh, tovarisch, I promise you will never live this down!" An arsonist changes the lives of our boys at 51, particularly Mike Stoker...Hail, Hail, the gang's ALL here! Please R/R! UUD
1. Not Just An Ordinary Picnic

Chapter One—Not Just An Ordinary Picnic

To say that Mike Stoker was a man of mystery was putting it lightly. If only his shift-mates knew! But his was not a secret he would willingly share with anyone. Besides, at this point, he had no reason to. He had only been told that someday, two men would appear, identify themselves properly, and then, _then_ , it would begin. Until then, his life was his own, to live as he saw fit, completely free of interference. Perhaps this is why he endured so stoically the gentle jibes about his lack of a love interest, or any deep person connections…Perhaps, although only known to Captain Hank Stanley and HQ, this was the reason Captain Stanley was listed as his next of kin, and there was less history noted in his personnel file then that of one John Gage. Although, after a while, it did grow tiresome, always living his life waiting for the proverbial other boot to drop…

Speaking of boots, Mike dropped his dusty boots and bunker pants by his bunk with a thump. He hated working long brush-fires, and arson fires were the worst! He had helped to ferret out the accelerant pattern on this one, based on the other fires that had been set, and cleanup had been long and exhausting. He knew all the other guys felt the same. He considered briefly hitting the showers, but knew from experience the absence of his bunkmates meant they were in the showers, which would leave no hot water for at least an hour or more. _Nope, I'll catch one in the morning_ , he decided. _Besides_ , he thought with a grin, _we're going off-shift, and the annual picnic is tomorrow_. _Everyone else will stampede out of here, and I can have some peace, especially if I hit the showers at wake-up_! With that pleasant thought, the engineer dragged his tired body into his bunk, and was sound asleep, snoring happily and loudly (!) before his shift-mates ever made it back into the dorm. Little did he know, the boot he had been waiting for was about to drop, _right on his head_.

~51~

Although Mike enjoyed attending the Annual Fireman's Picnic, it really wasn't his thing. He wandered around, catching up with old friends and enjoying some of the new equipment displays, but the family part…watching all the kids and families laughing and playing together…sometimes that was tough.

He headed off to where 51's had set up; hoping maybe the bachelors of the bunch would have a game of touch football going by now. The activity might pull him out of his funk. Gage had his sights set on something else…and for once it _wasn't_ a pretty girl. "Will you lookit that!" He exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with glee. "A pie-eating contest! I could win that, nooooo problem!" He declared this smugly! Roy looked askance at his partner. "Sure, if it was open only to other firefighters, like last year. You won that one hands down. But they got smart, Junior! This year, they've opened it to all-comers! _All_ -comers, Junior…like every teenage boy in the place—y'know, high school, college kids? You won't stand a chance!" Stoker just stood back, watching the fun.

Of course, Chet just had to get in on ribbing his pigeon. "Hey, Johnny, Check that little scene over there…looks like some father is trying to talk his teenager into taking a whack at it right now! Might make the competition interesting! I'll bet there's no way you could beat that scrawny little runt!" John's eyes narrowed as he regarded the Phantom with renewed interest. "Okay, Chet, name the stakes!" "Hmmm…loser does winner's chores for say, three shifts?" "Deal!" The grinning men shook, as the other men rolled their eyes.

Mike, ever the practical one, spoke up…"Guys, I think you forgot something." They both looked at him, surprised. "Does Gage have to win the contest, or just beat the skinny blond guy? There ARE other contestants, you know." "Oh," Chet grinned, "I'll go easy on ya, Gage. I just mean you gotta beat the skinny blond." Johnny looked at Chet incredulously. "Ok, but I'll still win, anyway."

He headed to the contest table, where the blond now sat, staring mutinously around him. He glowered angrily at the dark haired young man who took a seat at the other end of the table. Johnny was rather surprised by the boy's behavior. Weren't people here to have fun? He wondered briefly which firefighter the boy might be related to. He didn't look much more than 16 or 17. The competition was set to begin in 10 minutes, giving time for stragglers to join. The contest rules would be announced at that time.

The by-now bored "teenager" at the table was practically livid, though he struggled to hide his emotions. Illya Kuryakin _hated_ not being in control on a mission, especially one as ridiculous as this one. It was supposed to have been a simple initial contact. They could have met their target at his apartment and been back in New York by now. But noooooooo! Napoleon thought this picnic would be a _grand idea!_ And now this, this contest! Of course, he would easily win, eating pie any day of the week. This was _not_ a contest. Why, Napoleon was even _smiling_ when he talked him into sitting up here! He told him to observe the crowd in order locate their contact. Ah, the view. That must have been what he meant. Well, fine. He could _observe_ with the best of them!

Illya's eyes grew wide as the rules of the contest were announced. And that was precisely when Illya Kuryakin knew he had been had by Napoleon Solo. Again. He sought out his partners dancing eyes. He had time for only one murderous glare. Especially when he spotted their unaware contact standing right behind Napoleon Solo—and Solo grinning at Illya innocently.

"Hands behind your backs, gentlemen!" The announcer, Chief McConnike shouted. "As you can see, the volunteers from the Ladies' Auxiliary are placing whole pies before you. There will be no cheating! Bandanas are being placed loosely around your wrists as reminders. Crusts in the center and sides must be eaten, but rim shots are not necessary." An appreciative chuckle ran through the crowd and the contestants alike. "First man to finish the most pies, naturally, is the winner. We have, ahem, necessary bags…" here he paused delicately as a groan worked its way through the crowd. "But once that happens, said contestant is disqualified. No do-overs!" That got an out-right laugh from the good-natured firefighters and their families and friends.

At this point, the Chief Engineer himself took the stage briefly. "Only a blind man wouldn't be able to see all the betting going on out there, and you know the department's policy about gambling." Here a rather loud collective groan went up, which was quickly silenced by a number of stink-eyes from various station captains and battalion chiefs, some of whom could be seen hurriedly replacing their wallets.

The Chief smiled at this, and continued. "Now, I know our reigning champ is up here, defending his title, but it looks as if he may have some heavy competition this year. Therefore, the policy is rescinded, _just for today_. So, I ask only one thing…Regardless of who wins, if you make a bet, please consider donating some of your winnings to the Injured Firefighters, Widows and Orphans Fund. After all, that _is_ why we're here today." And to thunderous applause, "The Old Man," left the stage.

And with no more ado, the contest began.

Illya sighed, and then brightened as he saw the only silver lining…his pie was—chocolate cream! He dug in with gusto…

Napoleon Solo was so enjoying the sight of his normally reserved partner dousing himself in chocolate that he nearly forgot why they were there. He had known the man was behind him earlier, but wasn't worried when he moved off into the crowd. He was surprised, however, to find his quarry sitting over amongst quite a crowd of chattering, betting men. The man was writing in a small notebook, and seemed to be taking bets both for and against Illya and the dark haired "champion" in the contest.

Mike Stoker was _not_ a stupid man. He had realized quickly what would happen as soon as the Chief opened up the floor for betting. So, he opened an informal betting pool. He wasn't playing bookie, just offering to record and hold the stakes. That way, nobody lost track of who said or did what. It would make for less confusion later. Also, it was mathematically pleasing to Mike to be able to quote the odds. Ok, so maybe he _was_ playing bookie, but it wasn't for profit. It was just for fun.

He glanced at the table, where the competition between the paramedic and the mysterious blond was still going strong. The others had dropped out long ago. Roy had made a small bet and was now watching with professional interest. Mike snickered. He was probably hoping he wouldn't have to transport either competitor!

As the betting slowed down to a trickle and stopped, Mike closed his notebook and stood up. He was surprised to see a dark-haired man in an expertly tailored suit staring at him intently. For some reason, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He was polite, but he knew there was something odd here.

"May I help you?"

"No, but I would imagine you have been longing to meet your Uncle. Have you not?"

In all the times he had been contacting sleeper agents, Napoleon Solo had never had one react in quite the way this young man did. And for once in his life, Napoleon Solo was completely unprepared. Michael Stoker dropped like a rock. He was as unconscious as if Napoleon had darted him. Kuryakin, who had seen the whole thing, was also taken aback, and was barely able to stay in his assigned role.

Though, as it turned out, Illya had won by one pie anyway. Johnny had admitted defeat, amazed at the kid's ability. What amazed the agent was the other man's immediate ability to leap over the table and shift into paramedic mode when he spotted his partner and his downed comrade. Illya felt as if he could barely move. The sugar rush had overwhelmed his system, something he had, for once, neglected to factor into his performance calculations… _damn Napoleon!_ This was the last thing Illya remembered thinking, before slumping unconscious to the ground. His metabolic system had completely gone haywire on him.

When a shout went up from McConnike to the two closest paramedics, John looked up, seeing the skinny kid passed out on the floor behind the table. He checked with Roy, who seemed okay with Mike. "Go ahead, Johnny, He's coming around. See to the boy."

At Roy's words, Solo whirled around, seeing Illya on the floor of the stage for the first time. His brow furrowed with worry, as he realized there would now be major complications. He was sure he knew what was wrong with Illya, but it would be difficult to explain, given their cover, their true relationship, and their assignment. Also, he knew Illya was going to be giving him hell for this one for at least the next ten years! They could not just do an extraction with this agent…not given to how badly he had reacted…what was that all about anyway?

A civilian ambulance as well as a red rescue truck pulled up. It would have to do for the moment. The delicacy of their situation required they maintain their cover for the time being. He just prayed that Illya would not revert to speaking exclusively Russian, as sometimes happened when he came out of one of his metabolic episodes. He knew better, for God's sake! He wasn't supposed to try to win the damned contest! Just observe and eat a couple of pies! Not what- 9 or 10! It was times like this Napoleon Solo cursed his partner's innate competiveness. _Oh, tovorisch,* I promise you will never live this down!_

He thought fondly of how vehemently opposed to playing college students his 30ish partner was. With his extremely youthful, blond, blue-eyed good looks, plus the fact that a metabolic disorder gave him a very slender build (while he had a huge appetite, he never seemed to gain any weight). Illya had grown his hair out a bit longer than usual, and was dressed to fit the rebellious role he was currently playing.

Illya Kuryakin was, after all a master of disguise. Couple that, with the fact that he was a was a certified genius with several Ph.D.'s, was a brilliant scientist who preferred field work, had an eidetic ** memory, a gift for languages, was a weapons and an explosives expert; an incredible marksman with lightning-quick reflexes; then add in his Soviet military training, and you had one very dangerous agent on your hands.

But—he could still pass for a college freshman any day of the week—and often had. And it irritated the hell out of him that his current role was that of a bored _high school senior_ , especially since Napoleon was playing the role of his father!

Speaking of which, Napoleon ran to the stage, having run through all his options and thoughts in just the short time it took him to react to seeing Illya fall, and for the dark haired paramedic to reach Illya. Some of Napoleon Solo's special talents, among many, were thinking very fast on his feet, and being able to convince anybody of just about anything, anytime, anywhere. Very handy talents when in a tight situation!

Solo looked at the other man "I'm his father. I know what's wrong with him. I was distracted. I didn't realize he would take the contest too far. His metabolic rate is very high, but he shouldn't have eaten so many carbohydrates and so much sugar all at once. It's-it's my fault…I wanted him to participate in something… but I-I didn't expect this." He put his head in his hands wearily." "It's hard for him…"

Knowing they would have to transport and do tests, he stuck with a semi-truth. _Because of his own demeanor and stylish clothing, Solo could come across much older than his 35 years, although he didn't generally need to. Now if only the sleeper agent, the joker in the deck, would keep his mouth shut, as he had been previously warned to years ago, contact might still be possible. And this whole mission might not blow up in their faces—literally._

 _TBC_

* _tovarisch_ : The Russian term for "comrade" Often used by Solo and Kuryakin when speaking or referring to each other, in much the same way Roy and Johnny refer to each other as "Pally" and "Junior." In some aspects, their partnership is very similar, which is where I got the idea for this story in the first place.

**eidetic memory: a literal photographic memory; a person with this type of memory retains everything they have ever seen, read, or heard. They basically forget _nothing_. This can be both an advantage and a disadvantage for a field agent…


	2. The Sleeper Awakens

Chapter Two—The Sleeper Awakens

Mike woke up to an unfamiliar sight. Roy was bending over him, checking him over, just as he would if he had been hurt in the field; but both of them were in civvies. He was a bit dizzy and disoriented for a few minutes, but he came to his senses quickly. He remembered the question the man in the suit had asked him. Roy DeSoto was completely confused… _never_ before had he seen Stoic Mike Stoker cry.

Mike pushed Roy's hands away, wiped his face on his sleeve and without a word, pushed his way through his astonished shift-mates, and hurried towards his truck. He stopped, and looked sadly at Roy for a moment. "Roy, my notebook…make sure somebody takes care of the bets, okay? Good-bye."

With that, Mike took a last look around him, rushed to his truck, jumped into it, and roared out of the parking area. He knew the agent could find him at home, but it would have been too painful to have to say goodbye to all his friends now. Maybe somehow he would find a way, but not now…

~MFU~

Johnny paid no attention to anything other than his unconscious patient, until a man came to kneel next to him as he worked. "I'm his father. I know what's wrong with him. I was distracted. I didn't realize he would take the contest too far.

Johnny asked, "What is wrong with him?"

"His metabolic rate is very high, but he shouldn't have eaten so many carbohydrates and so much sugar all at once. He is having one of his reactions. It's-it's my fault…I wanted him to participate in something… but I-I didn't expect this." He put his head in his hands wearily." "It's hard for him…"

"What's his name, sir?" "Illya. Illya Diamante. I am Napoleon Diamante." This was deviating from the plan a bit, but he would have to deal with it, as Illya was liable to be disoriented for a while when he came out of it, and Napoleon figured first names would be less confusing.

By now, the ambulance and the on-duty paramedics had arrived and began taking care of the boy, listening as Johnny continued to question the father. "What did you mean? This is a chronic condition with him, then?"

"I mean that my son is not as young as he may appear to you. He has a metabolic disorder that causes him to appear younger than he is. He is actually in his late-twenties. Can you imagine what it is like for him, to always be taken as a teen, unable to gain weight no matter what he does? He takes foolish risks, and rebels at times. He is very unhappy. He is also brilliant. What nature took from him physically, she has more than made up for mentally. For example, he speaks several languages fluently. You must not be alarmed if he speaks only in a foreign language when he comes out of this episode. It happens frequently. He also may not understand what you are saying to him. He will also likely be very agitated, and may be combative." It was this last statement that gave Napoleon pause…as the paramedics continued their work.

As a precaution, since from experience he how his partner was liable to react when he first regained consciousness, Napoleon advised the paramedics to use restraints on his "son." He sighed as he watched the ambulance pull away. He hated to think of the initial fallout from his partner over this action; though he knew Illya would realize later it was the only sensible move. An unrestrained, incoherent Illya Kuryakin was equivalent to an unguided nuclear missile loose in New York City—a dangerous, uncontrollable weapon, indeed. And if history was any guide, he could remain incoherent for at least six or seven hours before his system stabilized itself; possibly longer, considering how badly he had overdosed on the sweets this time…At the very least, Illya was in for several days in the hospital before he could be moved to New York.

Napoleon followed in their rental car, which gave him ample time to order new identity kits to be couriered over from their Los Angeles office to him at Rampart Hospital. He figured it would take some time getting Illya checked in, so there should be plenty of time for the courier to reach him. Waverly was going to have both their hides for this one! He also had to figure out just how to explain to their boss that the extraction had not only _not_ taken place, but the young man had bolted from the scene before the bug he had brought with him could be planted on him. He had planned on planting it during their conversation, which was cut short by the fiasco at the picnic. The tracker he had planted on his truck, however, was functioning perfectly. At least that was something…

~51~

Mike hastily packed a bag, taking with him only the bare essentials. He included a few precious photos of his family and friends, even though he knew reminders of them would be painful; possibly even taken from him when he reached whatever destination the agents had in store for him. He had known this day would come, he had just never expected it to come in quite this way. He sat back on his couch, and tried to put his thoughts in order. He knew running would do no good, as they would just find him. He knew they would probably allow him to refuse, but he wasn't sure of anything at this point. He wasn't even sure what they really wanted from him.

For the first time he remembered that when he had come to, the agent had been kneeling next to Johnny up on the stage next to the blond kid on the stage. The kid had been passed out and the agent had been urgently talking to Johnny. What was that all about? And why was the agent not here yet? Something was wrong somewhere, and for the first time, Mike Stoker, who would normally never wish ill on anyone, was content to simply sit back and hope that whatever misfortune seemed to have befallen the agent, would change his own fortunes. Maybe he would simply give up and go back to wherever it was he had come from.

Although in his heart of heart, Mike knew this was not going to happen, he could delude himself for a little while longer, and so he chose to do. He went into his kitchen, grabbed a beer out of his refrigerator, put some of his Eagles LPs on the stereo, and kicked back in his comfortable recliner. He smiled a little. "Desperado"* sure fit his mood tonight. He was in one of the two places that he felt totally secure. The other was in the driver's seat of Big Red, and he had no idea if he would ever get the chance to bask in his best girl's comforting presence again. He finally determined to simply just not think about it anymore. In an hour or so, Mike finally fell into a restless sleep.

 _Big Red beckoned him, and his shift-mates called to him from the garage of Station 51, but he could never quite reach them. A deep chasm had opened between him and them, and no matter what he did, he couldn't find a way across. There was no bridge, and he had no rope to rappel with. At first, he couldn't hear what they were shouting, until he sat back in despair. Suddenly, they too stopped shouting, and he could then hear them clearly, as their voices dripped scorn and anger. They were disgusted because he hadn't even bothered to say good-bye. Except for Roy. He tried to convince the others they were wrong, but their voices over-rode his and eventually, they turned and faded away. Roy, his eyes filled with sorrow, watched a bit longer as he asked Mike, "Why, Mike? I thought we were friends." Then, as he too, joined the others, Big Red suddenly began to rust all over, and within a matter of a few minutes, his beloved best girl literally fell into a heap of rusted junk before his very eyes._ Mike awoke with a strangled cry, and for the second time in 24 hours, he cried.

~MFU~

Napoleon sat in one of the uncomfortable ugly orange vinyl chairs in the emergency waiting room of Rampart Hospital. His ears were still burning from the predictable blistering they had received from Mr. Waverly over the current state of their mission. He was not only upset over the seriousness of Illya's medical condition, he was very angry over the fact that Napoleon had deviated from the original plan of simply extracting their target at his apartment. No amount of explaining would appease his ire, and Napoleon knew better than to try at this point. It was his fault, and he accepted the fact. Boredom was simply not an acceptable reason for winging an assignment, even if one was able to talk one's partner into winging it with one. Illya had been against it from the start, and Napoleon had simply worn him down, if the truth be known.

At least all the proper documentation had arrived in time, and he had gotten Illya checked in to the hospital without a hitch. The courier had brought everything to him and handed him the large envelope only about twenty minutes after he had arrived at the hospital. He had waited in the parking lot until he had double-checked all the items with the courier. Fortunately, everything was, as usual, in perfect order. The one item which had turned his blood cold was the directive from the Los Angeles Chief to contact Mr. Waverly immediately. It wasn't that Napoleon hadn't planned on telling his boss what was happening…it was just that he was hoping he could do it when he had better news to report. However, according to the directive he received, the two chiefs had already been talking…and thus the blistering had begun.

His thoughts then turned to how pale and still his partner had been as he had watched them place him into the ambulance. Always before, he had come out of one of these episodes within an hour or so and experienced only a bit of mild confusion that had lasted only a few minutes. This time the situation was completely different. Why had Illya done this? Was it deliberate? Napoleon knew he was angry with him for putting them in this situation, but would he really knowingly put himself in this kind of danger just to get back at him? No. Not while they were on an assignment.

It had to be because of the competition. That stupid streak of his that hated to be beaten by anything or anyone. It truly was one of his weaknesses. More than once, Illya had continued to fight injured in the field because he refused to back down until the enemy was defeated. And because of a condition whose name Napoleon couldn't even pronounce, this time, that damned competitive streak could end up killing the idiot.

The worst part of the whole thing was that this condition was so rare that Illya had managed up to now to hide it even from UNCLE Medical…and now that was blown sky high. Napoleon had no idea what the repercussions of this latest escapade were going to have on their careers, but he was determined that they would face the situation together, regardless of his stubborn partner's thoughts on the matter.

Napoleon was shaken from his depressing thoughts by the arrival of an attractive nurse of about his own age. She smiled at him, and said "Mr. Diamante? Will you come with me, please? The doctor would like to speak with you about your son."

It was quite telling that Napoleon forgot to flirt with the nurse as they strode through the hallways. He spoke with deep concern. "Is he—my son, is he alright, Nurse-?"

"McCall," the pretty blonde smiled. She placed her hand lightly on his arm. "The doctor will go over everything with you. I can tell you he is one of the best there is, and that your son is getting the best possible care. Try not to worry too much."

With that she ushered him into a very comfortable wood-paneled office. A tall, dark-haired man with piercing blue-grey eyes greeted him with a firm handshake. "I'm Dr. Kelly Brackett, Head of Emergency Medicine, and you must be Illya Diamante's father?"

As they took their seats, Napoleon reflected that the doctor's handshake had reassured him more than any words could have. He knew for sure that Illya was in very good hands…

Napoleon smiled wanly, "I am. My name is Napoleon Diamante. How is Illya doing?"

"Well, I have to say, he seems to be a very strong young man. He is still unconscious, but all his vital signs are looking better. I have never encountered a case quite like his. I have called our Head Endocrinologist and several other specialists to consult on his case. I would like you to talk with them to give them any background you can on your son's situation. If you could fill me in on exactly what happened today, that would be very helpful."

Napoleon launched into the tale of the contest and its results. When he described Illya's chief competitor, Dr. Brackett's widened in recognition. "Well, if your son is as competitive as you say, that explains a lot. I know that young man. He's one of our paramedics… Johnny Gage. He happens, I believe, to have a hollow leg, and was also the reigning pie-eating champion four years running! That your son beat him today was quite a feat, but also was not a good thing, obviously."

Napoleon thought a moment. "Johnny? He's the one that began treatment on Illya! He jumped over the table to help take care of the guy that fainted, and then when Illya passed out he ran back to him, ripped off both their "bibs" and took care of him after he collapsed until medical help got there."

Dr. Brackett nodded. "Yeah, that would be our Johnny." He smiled, a glint of pride in his eyes.

The doctor went on to assure Napoleon that he was sure his son would be all right within a few days, and that he would be able to see him as soon as he was settled into a room, sometime within a couple of hours. They discussed the likely results when Illya regained consciousness, and agreed that maintaining the restraints temporarily would probably be the best course of action.

Dr. Brackett ushered Napoleon out into the hallway and down toward the treatment rooms. It was at that point that all hell broke loose in Treatment Room 4. Illya Kuryakin, alias Illya Diamante, had awakened…

TBC

A/N: * "Desperado" by the Eagles was written by Glen Frey and Don Henley and released April, 1973.


	3. Taming the Beast

A/N: As I do not speak Russian, italics are used when Russian is being spoken, which will be set off by quotation marks. Non-quoted italics are used for internal dialog.

~MFU~

There was a roar of epic proportions emanating from Treatment Four. Napoleon grimaced as he hurried to the room, listening to the flow of Russian epithets and threats washing down the hallway. He sincerely hoped no one spoke Russian. If so, things could get very ugly, very quickly. He made it to the door just behind several doctors and nurses. He caught the blonde nurse, the one who had been talking to him earlier.

"Please, Nurse McCall. Let me go in there. I think I can calm him down, but all those strangers overwhelming him is going to make it much worse."

Dixie looked at him carefully for a moment and then nodded. "Let me talk to Dr. Brackett." She disappeared into the room, leaving Napoleon to stand anxiously outside the door. As he ran his hand through his hair in frustration, he saw the two medics from the rescue coming down the hall, apparently heading for the exit. They heard the noise, and stopped next to him.

Johnny smiled at him. "Hi, Mr. Diamante." He gestured towards the door. "Not doing so well, is he?"

Napoleon considered the question. "Well, he is awake, which is good. I need to get in there. I guarantee he is not going to calm down until I see him."

Roy nodded. "Makes sense." Anything else he might have said was cut short when the tones on their HT sounded, and they turned and ran for the door. Napoleon reflected that something big must have been happening, as it seemed the two medics had been off-duty earlier that day.

Napoleon watched them go, and murmured, "Good luck, guys." He turned as the door opened and Dr. Brackett leaned out. The hoarse cries had not lessened. To his surprise, the doctor did not say anything, but instead, beckoned him into the room.

"See what you can do with him. Nothing we have tried has helped. I don't want to sedate him again. We are also ready to move him to a room upstairs. The orderlies will take him up as soon as they have a room available."

Napoleon nodded and rushed straight for the thrashing figure on the bed.

He had to practically shout at first, to get his partner's attention. The Russian was coming so fast now that even Napoleon, who had some knowledge of the language, could not keep up with it. He needed to find out where Illya was in his head. He started with English, to see if it made any impression yet.

"Illya! Illya! It's me! You need to stop. Calm down. You are fine. No one is going to hurt you."

The shouting continued unabated. It was clear English was not working, and in fact, seemed to agitate Illya even further. Napoleon sighed and switched to Russian, though it was a struggle.

" _Illya, you must stop this now. I will help you, but you need to listen to me."_ There was a pause, and Illya cocked his head in Napoleon's direction. Encouraged, but still stumbling over some of the words, Napoleon continued. _"You are in a hospital. You got sick. Do you remember?"_

Illya furrowed his brow. He was now completely silent, but obviously not really tracking anything. Napoleon sighed, realizing that if Illya didn't come out of it soon, they were in for a lot of trouble. He kept at it, periodically switching between Russian and English. He soon realized that anything he said in English agitated Illya to the point of his trying to throw himself out of the bed. _Not good…not good at all._

He sat back in the uncomfortable chair by Illya's bedside, and tried to think. He still had a mission to complete, but it felt wrong to leave Illya. He did seem a bit calmer with Napoleon there. Dixie stepped into the room just then. She came over and did a vitals check as Napoleon watched. Interestingly, Illya seemed to settle down when she was near him. In fact, he seemed calmer than he had since he had awakened.

Dixie noticed Napoleon watching in amazement, and smiled. She brushed a few strands of hair out of the young man's face. "It's alright, Illya. You'll be okay soon." And Napoleon could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile flit across his partner's face.

She turned to face Napoleon. "How are you holding up?"

Napoleon shrugged. "It's hard. I hate to see him like this. I've never seen it hit him this badly."

She nodded in sympathy. "Well, the doctors seem to think he will recover in a few days, so that is what counts."

Napoleon nodded. "Part of the problem is that I don't want to leave him alone, but there is some urgent business I need to attend to."

Dixie considered that. "Well, I don't mind checking on him for you as I can. I get off at nine tonight. Until then, I will come by and sit with him during my breaks. Would that help?"

Napoleon thought about it. "Thank you, that would be a help, but he is still so confused. That's the part that scares me. When he goes through this, he ends up saying all kinds of things that don't necessarily make sense. Often, he evens seems to think he is someone else." _Forgive me, Illya…_ Napoleon thought quickly. "There are times when he hallucinates about being a…" here he chuckled, "a spy, of all things! Just promise me you won't take anything he says seriously."

Dixie laughed lightly and assured him, "You wouldn't believe some of the wild tales I have heard in this place. No, you go on and do what you need to do. I'll make sure to keep an eye on your son. I'll leave notes for the doctor, as well."

Napoleon smiled gratefully. He cast one more look at Illya, and sighed. "One other thing you need to know. He hates to be touched. It's worse when he has these reactions. I would advise caution. I want to be here before they loosen the restraints. I have reason to believe he may try to leave."

With a look of concern, Dixie nodded slowly. "I'll let Dr. Brackett know. He can note that in his records.

Napoleon nodded, and leaned down to Illya. "I have to go right now…Miss McCall will be here if you need anything."

Illya gave no indication he had heard, but moaned softly as Napoleon left. Dixie stepped over to him, and spoke quietly to him for a while. She talked about inconsequential matters…she felt she was babbling a bit, even. But he quieted again and seemed more at peace. She stayed with him until he finally fell asleep, knowing she would be paged if anyone needed her.

As she watched his breathing even out, her heart went out to him. Even asleep, he seemed completely lost. Though she knew he didn't like to be touched, she remembered how he had responded before, and she stroked his forehead once more. The boy sighed in his sleep, and Dixie smiled. Keeping an eye on Illya Diamante was not a problem…not at all.

~TBC~


	4. Contact Established

A/N: My apologies for the length of time between updates. I have no excuses...my muse has been wandering through other realms lately...I hope you enjoy this update, and I promise I will try to update more often. Thank you to my awesome writing partner xavionite, who has helped me jumpstart my stalled WIPs...you are definitely the best! And thank you to all of you who motivate me to continue updating! This one's for you!

 **~MFU~**

Napoleon was torn as he drove his rental car over to the target's apartment. He really wanted to be with Illya, but he had to complete their mission first. Then again it was Illya's own fault he was in the hospital in the first place. Or was it? Guilt nagged at him once again. Their relationship had always been complicated. Napoleon knew his partner well enough by now that he should have seen this coming. Illya never backed down from a challenge…any challenge, no matter how insignificant. And neither do you, idiot. His inner voice was in full throttle. He huffed in impatience as he saw the tracking receiver ping and spotted the blue pick-up in the parking lot. He pulled over and parked across the street from the building. He only hoped their target had not spotted the tracker and bolted. All he needed was for something else to go wrong today.

He automatically scanned the area for possible exits or interference, but all was quiet. The lot was mostly empty, and Solo figured most of the residents had likely not gotten home from work yet. He was a bit surprised but pleased that Stoker had decided to stay put after running the way he had earlier that afternoon. Either he had accepted the inevitable contact, or he had gotten dead drunk and passed out. And from what he had seen of the young man, he would bet on the former far faster than the latter.

He quickly scoped out number 217. There was no back exit, and all the drapes and windows were closed. He tapped lightly on the door and waited. He heard no noise at first and wondered if Michael Stoker had given him the slip after all. Then, he put his hand on his holster as he heard the sound of soft footfalls. One didn't live long in this business by being careless.

The chain on the door rattled as the doorknob lock disengaged. The door was cracked open and a blue eye peered out at him suspiciously. "It's you."

The voice was flat and accusing. Napoleon couldn't help but smile. "It's me. May I come in?"

There was a beat as Mike thought about all it would mean if he opened the door and all it would mean if he simply slammed the door and locked it. He opened the door.

 **~EEE~**

Dixie McCall listened as Illya Diamante raved on, in a mix of what sounded like Russian, French, and maybe Chinese. Some of it was so rapid fire she supposed it could have been Swahili and she would never have known the difference.

His sudden switch to English not long before she was due to go back on duty startled her. His English was heavily accented, and hesitant, but she understood him easily. "Excuse me, Nurse. Where is my partner? What have they done with Napoleon?" His brow was furrowed in confusion.

Now, it was Dixie who was confused, until she recalled what Napoleon had told her about his likely reactions.

"Oh, he-uh, he had to attend to some business. He said he would be back in a little while."

Illya frowned and shook his arms as best he could. He demanded. "Where am I and why am I being held in restraints?"

Dixie floundered for a moment, unsure of how much she should tell him. "Well, you've been ill, and we didn't want you to harm yourself, (or anyone else, she thought ruefully.) You're in a hospital."

Illya glowered at her. "What did you do to me? What's wrong with me? Did your interrogators go too far again?"

She stared at him for a moment, troubled. "No one has tried to interrogate you, Illya."

The bitter chuckle tore at her. "Really? That's a first. So tell me? What was it then? Experiment gone wrong? Don't tell me it was just luck. There's no such thing as luck in this business. All modesty aside, you've captured one of UNCLE's most valuable assets, and you have to know I'm not going to tell you a damned thing. How many times will we play this game do you suppose?"

Dixie had seen eyes like his before…during her time in the Army. Something about this whole situation was just not right. The challenge and conviction in the eyes of this young man told her he absolutely believed every word he was saying. And so did she.

She looked into his eyes and made the only promise she could. "I won't hurt you, Illya. I promise."

She turned and silently left the room, vowing to have a chat with Mr. Napoleon Diamante as soon as she saw him again.

 **~MFU~**

Mike was quiet as he sat across from the dark-haired agent in the suit who had introduced himself as "Napoleon Solo."

Napoleon looked around at the neatly kept apartment. He noticed a distinct lack of personal touches. It looked as if the man had not lived there very long. That didn't square with the dossier he had been given. "Nice apartment. How long have you lived here?"

"Five years."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. He stood and wandered over to the bookcase, which doubled as an entertainment center. Here was the one area where Stoker's personality did show through. The equipment was top of the line and state of the art. His albums showed that his taste in music was somewhat eclectic but tended to run towards classic rock.

The books lining the top shelves were mostly classics and westerns. The bottom shelf contained several dozen textbooks and notebooks relating to all the Fire Science and Engineering courses he had taken over the years, including the courses he was currently enrolled in—Arson Investigation. Unknown to Mike, it was the fact that he had nearly completed his second degree that had triggered his "awakening."

Napoleon turned back to the man seated in the recliner. "I imagine you have a lot of questions, Mr. Stoker."

It was Mike's turn to raise an eyebrow. "A few."

Napoleon nodded. "You don't talk much, do you?"

Mike shrugged. "Not much." He fell silent.

"I know this was not what you expected, but it hasn't gone the way we expected either."

Mike's glare was eloquent and to the point. _No crap, Clara!_

At least Solo had the grace to blush under Stoker's withering scrutiny.

Finally, Mike decided to simply cut to the chase. "Look Mr. Solo. Why don't you just tell me what it is you want? Obviously, you're here to activate me. Why now? And what's so special about me? And why me anyway? Since when do you guys recruit through the military anyway? I'm not stupid. A dozen other guys took those tests that day, and not _one_ of them were tested for nine hours. And none of them were taken off-post. You wanna tell me about that?"

Napoleon smiled thinly. His instincts about Stoker had been correct. Sharp. _Very sharp._ And perfect for this mission. "No."

Napoleon stood and reached for his briefcase and handed Mike a file folder. "In here, you'll find everything you need to know about what will be expected of you as an agent should you decide to join us. I will come back tomorrow morning for your decision."

Mike stared at him. "You would trust me with this kind of information? What if I say no? What if I simply decide to split instead?"

Napoleon treated Mike to a decidedly feral grin. "Then I suppose I'll simply have to track you down and kill you. Good day."

And with that, Napoleon Solo gave Mike Stoker a jaunty salute and walked out the door.

 **~TBC~**


End file.
